


ER for Emergency Room (And This Ship)

by haplessmedstudent



Series: Hospital AU (That No One Asked For) [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haplessmedstudent/pseuds/haplessmedstudent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a Trauma resident and Grantaire is his intern. </p><p>(Basically no one asked for a hospital AU, but I am convinced that if you applied Enjolras' impassioned character to the hospital he would be such an asshole surgeon-type, and Grantaire would be easy-going but efficient and would know all the best 24-hour places to eat from.  Which is also a life-saving skill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ER for Emergency Room (And This Ship)

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom, first post, etc. Please be kind.  
> 1\. I have boards in three weeks, I'm not done with Physiology and I procrastinated with exR, as you do.  
> 2\. I am basing this off of real-life experiences, although the Musain Medical Centre (MMC), the characters and the shops mentioned therein are not based on any real-life situations, places or people. Any similarities you find are purely co-incidental.  
> 3\. I named things after med books. Sorry. (Or not.)  
> 4\. Unbeta-ed. (I would like one, if anyone were to find this beta-worthy.)
> 
> And also I hope that you, whoever you are, achieve your goals for today, and that you drink enough water and do something relaxing and work out and catch up on your emails/task list/etc. Basically.

Grantaire was, for the most part, a good intern.

The problem with being a good intern was that you had to follow your resident around the ER as he did his scut work and received all the referring calls and hospital transfers (as befitted the lowliest year level of them all; most attendings would agree that residency was the most thankless part of medical training ever, and that included the third year of med school when one did clinics for the first time and was basically an ignoramus of the highest caliber). Grantaire did this every 72 hours, for 24 hours, because that was how duty days worked and no one said Trauma Surgery was a sensible life choice.

So here Grantaire was, his foot aching in his red Danskos (he liked things to match) and juggling three charts, a couple of specimen vials and some OR schedules in his hand while Enjolras gesticulated wildly and barked at someone on the phone.

“I don’t understand why you’re not letting me get OR 2 over Montparnasse—” Enjolras face was bitter and distraught, hair frizzing up even more out of his ponytail. His bagstrap was hanging off an awkward angle and was bringing his collar down. He always had this golden tan that Grantaire did not understand but appreciated nonetheless, although out of respect for everyone, he was trying not to look. Much. “I told you we’ve had this patient scheduled directly as a transfer. It’s an ambulance that’s coming from 50 miles away and you’re telling me they’re not even first priority?” More fuming. Grantaire was transfixed. “What part of hepatic rupture isn’t an emergency? I’ve seen Montparnasse’s case, it’s not my fault his attending’s ERCP went bad — look, come on.”

Grantaire did a surreptitious check of his watch. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Oh well, such was his fate—

“Yeah, no. I’m filing an incident report. Who’s this again? Levy. Yes. Got it. Well, you have a good day, too, Berne N. Levy.” Enjolras nearly spat, ending the call with such ferocity that Grantaire winced for the poor screen.

Still, he waited. Enjolras was in a Mood (although to be fair, he was almost always nearly in a Mood) and Grantaire treated him thusly as a distressed wild animal — no sudden movements, noises, don’t make eye contact first, etc.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire tried to start, after Enjolras calmed down somewhat. Enjolras was sighing heavily and putting his phone back, cricking his neck, popping his shoulder and shifting his bag up higher, all in one smooth, elaborate motion. “— That OR scheduling still sucks at 11:55 pm.”

The resident started gathering up the other charts from Grantaire. “Yeah, it does. This is practically primetime for Trauma though, isn’t it.” Enjolras tutted briefly as he clattered the metal folders clipboards together and his thumb got caught in the melee. “Well, I’m just gonna have to tell Lamarque he can’t do this case here and that patient has to transfer to another hospital. Which is a shame because he told me he I could be first assist.”

Grantaire grins. “Is that why you were so adamant to get that patient?” Enjolras smiled sheepishly. “That would’ve been good, though. Hasn’t he been letting you assist him more and more ahead of the others?”

Enjolras, for all his brilliance and stubbornness, actually flushed a little. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, laughing. “Don’t let that slip to Courf, though.”

Grantaire blinks a little in the face of a blushing-smiling Enjolras. “Sure, you’re the boss.”

“Which reminds me — come on.” The blonde nodded his head in the direction of the ER exit, motioning to the sidewalk outside. Because Grantaire was contractually obligated to follow, and in another life, would probably follow this man anywhere — to Narnia, out of the Shire, onto a barricade — he did, despite the ten thousand and one errands he knew they still had to deal with.

Enjolras was walking briskly, his longer legs covering more ground despite wearing the most threadbare Chuck Taylors and jeans that had probably seen better days. Or weeks. (A remarkable juxtaposition: Grantaire, who had always considered himself stylish, if not downright artistic, loved to match everything he wore — he had clogs and scrubs in all colors of a 12-set Crayola — which he reserved for Duty Days. Outside of the hospital, he had a collection of collared shirts and tailored jackets, pocket squares for every occasion, a dozen belts. Oxfords and brogues. This was frustrating because he’d always wanted to impress Enjolras, dammit, but all the other man had seen him in was scrubs and clogs in varying shades of functional. On the otherhand, Enjolras just had hospital-issue burgundy scrubs, about two pairs of jeans that were one day away from walking off by themselves and sneakers of dubious color-origins. And he still, always, looked brilliant.) He was walking speedily to the next block over, his doctor’s coat stuffed haphazardly into his open shoulder bag, and Grantaire followed him, two steps behind. 

“What’s the plan?”

Enjolras shot him a slightly uncomfortable glance. “Well, I was looking at Facebook notifications today—”

“You, sir, on social media? Preposterous.”

Enjolras smirked. “What? It’s been known to happen.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Whatever. Everyone knows the last time you procrastinated was, like, 2009.”

Enjolras shrugged, then shoulder-opened the way to a pastry store. Incidentally, Grantaire’s favourite store. That he was certain no one else in the district knew about. (What? He considered himself to know the best places to eat every significant cuisine. He took his pleasures very seriously.) Suffice to say, he was baffled. “You know this place? You like this place? You enjoy fluffy, airy refined carbs like most of the population?”

Enjolras actually glared at him as he took his place in front of the counter. (They had that kind of dynamic.) There were no places to sit at the shop, as it was basically a kitchen and a take-out counter right inside the entrance, but the cakes were quite frankly ridiculous and the place was open 24-hours — which made it worthy of glowing recommendations, in Grantaire's opinion. “Actually, I asked around. And just because I make my own Paleo pancakes doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy tiramisu.”

“The fact that you make your own snacks, and that they’re Paleo, tends to preclude the other pleasures in life.”

Enjolras was talking to Schwartz, the teenager who got saddled with the midnight shift at Harris and Sons’ Patisserie-Boulangerie. Schwartz shot Grantaire a nod when he saw him come up and made a "who’s this" gesture to Grantaire when Enjolras turned around to get something from his bag. Grantaire just shrugged. “Hey, I’m here to pick up an order?” Enjolras started. “Here’s my order slip.” He turned to Grantaire again. “Look, stop hating on Paleo. It checks out. Actually, okay, intermittent fasting also checks out. A bad idea when I have 18 hour work days, but the physiology in it makes sense.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, then widened his eyes when he saw the cake being boxed because he loved that frosting. “It’s alright. You can admit to liking power lifting and fad diets. No one will judge.”

They made their way to the only “table” in the place, a chest-high chestnut counter on the right side of the foyer. Enjolras lifted the lid, stuck a candle inside, and fished a lighter (half-empty; the man was a chain-smoking menace) from his scrubs’ various pockets, lighting the candle in one practiced click.

THANKS FOR BEING AN AWESOME INTERN. WON’T YOU RECONSIDER SURGERY? Was iced delicately on top in green. And along the sides, ALSO HAPPY 25TH BIRTHDAY. 

Grantaire looked at it, a little stunned. Then he looked at Enjolras. “This is what Facebook told you, huh?”

Enjolras, for all that he seemed nonchalant about it first, owned up to his gesture with characteristic resolve. “Well, I saw it was your birthday and that you’d be spending it on duty with me, and seeing as how you’re shifting out of Surgery this week, I wanted to do something. And it’s your favorite — Eponine said — coffee flavoured, almond frosting, marzipan on top.” Grantaire smiled at him, and covered his eyes, shaking his head a little. “Hey, it’s true. We may have argued a lot over the past two months, but you’re a very efficient intern, and you’re gonna be a good pediatrician someday, and we still would like you to reconsider Trauma because you have a knack for herding the drunken teenagers to stay still on a stretcher.”

Grantaire laughed. “And that’s basically all it takes, right?” 

Enjolras gestured to himself. “Well, being an asshole also helps, but that’s what the six years of training are for.”

Grantaire shot him a grin. “If we’re being honest, sir, you were an asshole already before you decided to sign your life away to Trauma.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes even as he smiled crookedly. “The OR nurses just bring out the worst in me. And the anesthosiologists who take too long to show up. And Montparnasse who insists that he gets first pick of OR’s just because he’s the chairman’s son. And patients who go home against medical advice.” 

“That’s a lot of people,” Grantaire hummed.

“Well, it’s a harsh place, the line between life and death. Aren’t you blowing out your candle?”

Oh, right. “Right. Well, to dreams, and to training at the MMC, and to the craziest rotation so far,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras smiled again, a softer smile, and oh god please let this not be just Grantaire imagining things. “To you.”

Grantaire bent down and blew out his candle, flame flickering languidly. It was a quarter past midnight, and his arm still hurt from helping Enjolras pop a patient’s shoulder back into place, he probably had someone else’s blood on his pants, his hair was a menace — but, for now, peace. A thoughtful gesture. Enjolras looking at him, soft, in spite of the man himself. 

The candle blew out, and Enjolras’ pager beeped.

The moment was broken. In synchrony, the two men had to gather their things. Enjolras took a fortifying drink from a “Mad Max” thermos whose contents no one was sure about (Grantaire suspected it was a protein shake with shots of espresso, because Enjolras was seen rarely sitting down to eat but managed to be, like, anabolic and pretty well-cut despite the 100-hour-weeks), boxed the cake back up for Grantaire, and gave him a rueful smile. “Happy birthday, R. That was Lamarque.”

Grantaire paused in the middle of his packing up. He took a deep breath and decided to go for it. “Yeah, hold on. Just. Since I’m shifting out on Friday — I wanted to, well. You’re technically not my senior anymore, right?”

Enjolras shrugged, and Grantaire saw him shift his bag, but the blonde managed to look patient. “Right.”

“So, it wouldn’t be completely improper of me to invite you to have dinner with me on Saturday?”

Enjolras, as with all things he did, was efficient even in his surprise. Quick and definite, gone in the next breath, replaced with something that looked like happiness, in this light. 

“Barring an emergency—”

— and here they had to laugh, because wasn’t that statement appropriate —

“I was actually planning to ask you. On the way back.” Enjolras rubbed the back of his neck, and boy was it refreshing to see him almost unsure of himself. “There’s a Greek place that I heard from Eponine was your favourite,” Enjolras continued. “After we both get off, can we have dinner? At eight? Or nine. Or whenever we’re both done.”

“After we both get off?”

Enjolras blushed again. Dear God, he was adorable. When Grantaire had first met him, he was just another callous brilliant bastard, but no, the man had to have layers. And a perfect jawline. “That was poorly-worded, and also, you are twelve.”

“Well, you walked into it. And, well. You know my answer already. Copycat.”

They stood there smiling stupidly at each other before another pager beep came through.

This time Grantaire opened the door for them as they walked out. It was a chilly day outside, the streetlights yellow and subtle, and up ahead the Musain Medical Centre glittered imperiously. Their place of madness, their battleground — and for all intents and purposes — home.

“Such insolence. I’ll get you for that, R, you know you’re still under me.”

Grantaire looked back at him, and Enjolras was already smirking. “With all due respect, sir, you’re a bit of a dirty-minded scoundrel, aren't you?”

Enjolras’ face was somehow happy, embarrassed, and cocky all at once. “That is also true.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and this time when he and Enjolras walked, they were side-by-side. 

 

 

~

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clear up:  
> 1\. First two years of med school - classroom learning.  
> 2\. Third and fourth year med school - students do clinics/rotate in the hospital. You're a newbie, so literally everything is confusing and you feel like a waste of space during rounds.  
> 3\. Internship - you rotate through different departments, mostly to find out what your specialisation will be. Scut work still but you may feel less like an idiot during rounds. This is Grantaire's year, and he's pretty decided on Pedia, although, as Enjolras said, he seems to have an instinct for Surgery.  
> 4\. Residency proper - precedes fellowship or becoming an attending physician. The higher up you go, the more manageable your workload. Enjolras is a first-year resident*, and if he's a bastard now, wait until he's a sixth year Team Captain. 
> 
> *First years aren't usually the first assists of attending, because they usually go for seniors or even the fellows. But Enjolras is, as aforementioned, brilliant. He's trying not to be too smug about it.


End file.
